Hasta la vista
by yeyavailability
Summary: Bakura is pregnant. Luckily, Ryou doesn't want the baby—but he also doesn't want an abortion. What other way to get rid of the baby than to do the same to its carrier? AU, BR, YMB.
1. Prologue

Here's to me trying to get back into the fandom. I've wanted to write one those angsty, hilarious fics for a while. As you can tell by the title this is going to be pathetic—and OOC, of course, just for the hell of making Bakura's life harder.

Warning: This fic is _not_ Ryou-happy. He doesn't have that sad past he did, and he won't play a very major role (or a good role) anyway.

**Edit: **Beta'd by **Trempush**! Praise her for she has opened a new light in my eyes, or something. Hearts hearts hearts (this site needs to support emoticons).

* * *

When I threw up onto the silver-platted toilet rim that morning, I realized that this was it. This was what I had coming to me, what should have happened earlier before I decided to let Ryou into my pathetic little shackles, before I ever opened my first fan letter, before I auditioned for that first movie; before I signed the contract. Sold my soul, sealed my fate, was too damn naïve to realize the difference.

I had it coming. Ryou was on my doorstep that day—a lowly fan, another number, someone else who spoke their words of love and admiration and did nothing to help me expand my career; if they did, I could have upgraded to a house, or a floor at least. I'll admit, that doorstep wasn't mine. The owner of it wasn't there at the moment, so, drawn by that shiny silver necklace on his neck, I opened the door wide. I didn't invite him in, but I gave him a chance.

He didn't take it—not at first. We had a small, boring conversation, an exchange of unnecessary, pleasant words. Maybe it was my image, the fact that I had to keep this artificial smile plastered to my face so that the media won't ruin the chance of the next director even sparing a glance at my audition tape, maybe it was the golden ring and its duplicates on all five of his fingers. Either way, I'd let him in, given him a tour of the first and second floors I had no rights to. It was a nice house—not one you'd expect an upcoming movie star to have, but in any case I was better off showing him this than that tiny bedroom in the basement. The basement I didn't have the keys to. I hope I remembered to push that little stool between the cracks before answering the door.

His long, white hair swished as he turned, revealing a single crystal earring. His pale fingers, nails painted gold, reached to brush a few stray strands out of his big, brown eyes. The smile on his lips reflected in his eyes, and in an instant I could recognize that look—it brought my memory back to the streets, where those stupid men and women put their trusting gazes on this poor young orphan…

Maybe it was his face, the way he showed off all his money—but at that moment and for the rest of two years I spent with him, I thought Ryou was stupid. Gullible. Easy. It was night time when he finally opted to leave, sorry for bothering—I smiled and gave him my cell phone number. I smiled goodbye close to his cheeks, gave him the feeling of that imaginary kiss, the hint of what was to come—and he clutched that little sheet of paper, skin as white as it as he walked off dazedly.

I'd smirked and I'd thought, oh yes.

Then I'd skipped down to my pathetic little futon in that pathetic little basement room and giggled myself to sleep. I left my cell phone on and happily gave myself radiation all night, feeling its electronic heat against the naked skin of my chest. I haven't slept without a top since the first time I found shelter, but that night I'd felt contented enough to go against myself.

Maybe that was the first warning.

-

It had been a nice relationship. Ryou called me first thing next morning—at the first hour of the morning broke—and his voice had been hushed, frightened, awed. Even though I had just been rudely awakened from my dream of life in a mansion, the _'oh yes'_ resurfaced once again and I knew I'd scored.

It was during that period when everything was alright; I had just came back from my three-month filming vacation and was waiting for the caster of the new movie call back and be worshipful of my skill and potential. There had been nothing else to do in the mean time, so I'd arranged a dinner for myself and Ryou—gave him all that 'you're special' shit, led him by the hands like he was a feeble baby and he'd enjoyed every moment of it. We'd sat down, me in my sunglasses and drawn up hoodie, him in almost the same thing. Looking like some creepy, almost-famous guy had to be somewhat of a stressor, after all.

Even at that subtle display of intelligence, I still didn't consider Ryou had brains.

It was either that which was the second warning, or the moment the waitress came to take our orders.

"Are you two twins?" she'd asked suddenly, irrelevantly. Back then, it had been a chance for me, an opening. I'd pulled Ryou into an embrace across the table—covered his silent gasp with my next words, given the waitress a charming smile.

"We're lovers," I'd told her. Ryou froze in my arms.

The waitress gave no reaction, absorbing this unnecessary information before taking our orders and leaving. Ryou was gaping like a fish from across the table, and sadly to me it had done nothing to prove his brainpower. I should've known, though. It should've been clear to me when his lips twitched into a shy smile on his round face and glimmering eyes—yet, there was no red hue on his cheeks.

"W-was that a joke," he'd breathed, "B-Baku—Bakura-san…?"

The stutters were all in the wrong place—I really should've observed closer and realized then. However, this whole scene inflated my ego, and I blinded myself to everything but the jewelery he had all over him. I'd probably became deaf, too, to everything but the way they clanked heavily against each other, the glass cup, or when Ryou's fingers brushed against any hard surface.

The bells were ringing red everywhere around me, but they weren't gold or silver or worth any expensive value. I couldn't see them, couldn't hear them.

I'd flashed Ryou a charming smile.

Unknowingly to me, to my ego-blinded senses—he'd flashed me one back.

-

That was the beginning of two years ago I'd proclaimed safety to. I've just gotten back from filming my fourth movie (and I hope this one would _sell_ for once—I've got an apartment now, but _damn_ I want a house).

Nothing has really changed besides the living arrangements. Ryou was still the one who bought me this suite after learning of my financial status, the one who was stupid and willing and bottom in bed, and I was still (sadly) not that famous. The reason Ryou wanted this relationship in the first place, or so he'd told me, was that he thought I was perfection. Hilarious, but a good boost to my ego.

Coming home into his welcoming arms, I never thought I'd have to prove him wrong.

It was after the interview, the showing and talk of the cast and all that, where I'd felt my first brain-shattering moment of soberness and asked for an aspirin. Maybe it was the aspirin, maybe it was the food beforehand. Most possibly it was the person who'd given it to me. Yami, Yugi, whatever his name was—he was a co-star I didn't like, in which this was mutually returned, but my head was pounding and it felt good to ask and immediately receive so I thought nothing of it. I took the aspirin dry, but drank the offered water anyway for good measure, hoping it'd help with my headache.

Was it revenge? It was part of the movie after all, with instructions from the director. I got to break that bastard's face on set, with the camera rolling, and if it wasn't for acting it would've been a pretty amazing situation. I missed his nose at the last millimetre—of course, though unfortunate—but it was a very believable performance. I didn't get his nose, but I got his eye.

Ryou was the one who noticed the first symptom.

My chest muscles were constricting uncomfortably, you see—it was like going through puberty all over again—and I was rubbing at them.

At first, Ryou thought I was molesting myself (he had no idea what I was below). Then, seeing the pain I tried not to show on my face, his expression turned from disgusted (or vaguely aroused) to worried.

"Bakura?" He asked, inching towards me in worry, "are you okay?"

Fuck no I wasn't okay. But at that time, still in that unsuspecting state of mind, I'd told the both of us that I was fine indeed. And I truly thought I was—not that I'd tell him anything different if I thought otherwise—until the second symptom showed.

The chest pains I could ignore. I was used to having random pains all over the place—must be a side effect of having been beaten up so many times earlier in life—but not _this_.

I made sure Ryou never saw shit of _this_ symptom. It was horrifying, terrifying, disgusting and impossible.

There was, for the first time since birth, a thin, minuscule layer of fat, stretched over the toned muscles of my stomach.

I remember screaming. I may have cried, being the man I was, with my long hair and heavy lashes, but it was whole and real and horrifying. It was a beer belly, I'd immediately thought, this flap of pure _fat_ on me. What would Ryou—wait, no, that was it. Ryou was spoiling me with those half meals per day he served. I'll have to tell him to cut it down to a quarter...

"But make sure you add some vegetables in compensation for the extra loss." I thought harder and came to a conclusion. "Broccoli, to be exact."

Ryou's face looked devastated when I told him of the news.

"But—Bakura, you're a _carnivore_," he exclaimed dramatically. Stupid hypocritical bitch, I'd thought. He had always wanted some greens in my diet, and now he's freaking out like it's the worst thing possible that I've finally agreed? Fuck this shit. I'm already getting a headache.

I got a whole lot of headaches after that. I have smashed all my beer bottles and pour their sinfully amazing liquids down the drain in fear of my stomach expanding any more, _which it did_—in result I've stayed sober longer than I have when I was twelve. I woke up everyday feeling like I had a hangover, whether mild or not, and in the afternoons and nights the frequency of them had both Ryou and myself suspicious.

"Bakura—" Ryou started, but I cut him off.

"I need to piss," I dismissed, waving him off as I went to the bathroom to do exactly that and ignoring his cry of '_Again?!'_. It wasn't just for shutting him up; I really needed to urinate.

As I sat on the toilet seat to crap after doing my business, I felt my stomach twist. _Ow shit,_ I thought, then thought so again with more alarm when bile rose up my throat.

I don't think there was crap hanging out of my ass, I don't _think_... All I remember was this horrible burning as I retched into the toilet bowl, face to face with the swimming brown, unwanted tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

Humiliation. Complete, utter humiliation. I could remember Ryou's worried voice, the door opening—and maybe there _was _crap hanging out my ass after all.

Sweet, stupid little Ryou said 'eww', then closed the door on me.

-

I had no idea when the warnings elevated into actual crisis, but obviously I'd missed whenever that was because Ryou had not once greeted me with a worshipful suffix over breakfast.

He still cooked it though, like the stupid little housewife he was, so I thought nothing of it and proceeded to eat those three cloves of broccoli I had on my plate. They were cold, hard, and there were still speckles of ice on them—just the way I liked it, I found. This did mean Ryou wasn't spending his unworthy life on making me a good meal, but he'd taken it out of the fridge and put it on a plate at least, instead of just pointing to me where the bag was in the freezer. I still thought there was nothing wrong.

"Ryou-chan?"

Ryou continued prodding around the kitchen, finding material for his own meal. He never once looked at me as he gave a vague sound of acknowledgement that I had spoken to him.

"Hmm?"

That little _bitch_.

"What do you think of a nice, romantic dinner tonight?" I flashed him a smile, forcing my muscles to keep it that way until he turned to look at me.

_Look at me damnit!_ I snarled in my head, the corners of my lips twitching. He finally paused his insignificant activities, but only for a second—he didn't even stop fully to think of the answer.

"Can't," he said offhandedly.

I was dumbfounded. Rich but lowly Ryou, another face in midst of the millions of other fans (or at least, I hoped for millions), _rejecting_ my invitation? Why? Why do you do this to me, Ryou, _how_?

"I'll be paying this time," I offered.

Hopelessly, it seemed, because his next reply had nothing to do with my low funds.

"You're gaining weight, Bakura," he started, "you don't want to be seen by the public like that, do you?"

Immediately my mind translated this as _I don't want to be seen by the public with you, fatass,_ and I gaped openly. Ryou continued preparing his chicken and beef lasagna—laying mozzarella over cheddar over parmesan, over butter. What the _fuck_.

"We're going out tonight and that's _final_," I snarled, my hands shaking around the fork. Was that rust I saw on its handle?

Ryou stopped preparing his fatty meal and turned to regard me from the bottom of his peripheral vision. The _fuck_, that little bitch, he didn't even bother tilting his head—!

"Bakura," he snapped—and _why_ was his fork so clean and shiny—"you're acting like a pregnant woman."

No.

_No_.

"I'll show you a pregnant woman," I hissed, "I'll throw up on your face and stick my fat stomach into your _face_ and you'll _see_—"

And _I_ saw. I finally saw the truth.

I gasped in horror, backed down. Then I fled the kitchen.

Ryou definitely wasn't laughing behind my retreating form, but he definitely wasn't chasing after me either. In fact, running out of our apartment suite, I heard the sound of the stove turning back on through the frail wooden doors.

The numbers _713_ stared down at me, shining a rusty gold from its high place on the door.

I thought to myself, no wonder the bad number is longer than the good.

* * *

**tbc**

* * *

Confusing? Of course. I even stuck the little bold tbc there to make everything seem more surreal. And Marik. Poor neglected psycho will come later.

First time writing first person, hope it worked out. There has to be a hundred mistakes here, I know.


	2. Best vs Worst

Hurray, line breaks are working again!

Review reply function not working. I've heard it's against the rules or something to make a little reply corner on the fic, so, I guess I'll wait until it works to thank everyone who has reviewed. Love to you all!

**Edit:** Thankyou again to **Trempush** for betaing! Hearts again.

* * *

Best versus worst

* * *

I'm a man, I thought, I can handle this. I'm still wearing the pants, I'm the one who finally cut his hair short. I'm the man.

The pregnant man.

I backed Ryou up against the wall, as I always used to (though for entirely different reasons), stared him hard and serious in the eyes.

Then I cried on his shoulders.

-

At least, that was scenario I had feared when I broke to him the news. Luckily, or unluckily depending on the inclusion of future events, it didn't go that way.

"I—I think I might be pregnant."

Ryou didn't drop the plate he was holding. It was a good sign, but maybe he should have, just so it would reassure me I didn't commit myself to someone who didn't take anything I said seriously. In fact, he never stopped running the cleaning cloth over the soapy porcelain; he merely turned to regard me with a peculiar gaze.

The whole image reminded me of our escapade too long ago with the whipped cream and ropes, and for a moment I was jealous of the plate held by those nimble fingers. This memory was completely irrelevant and hit me so hard I was baffled for a moment, forgetting where I was.

"And where did you get this notion from, Bakura?" Ryou asked, and I had no idea what he was talking about—"Why do you think being _pregnant_, of all things, is a good joke to pull on me and your career?"

Everything came back to me, and my head spun briefly. Fucking headaches…

"It's _not_ a _joke!_" I screamed, practically flailing in frustration, "Look at me, I'm fucking _fat_, I have all these _labour pains_, I'm gaining _breasts_ from all this obesity—" and why am I convincing him?—"I'm having such a big headache and it hurts and I'm stating all this obvious shit and _ugh!_"

Even as I panted, Ryou had nothing special to say to my outburst. I think he may be getting rather used to them.

"Did you use google or yahoo?" he mocked.

The _bitch_. Mockery was for people with intelligence, how _dare_ he steal my privilege! I didn't think I could explode any further. "I didn't fucking use the internet!"

"I suppose you walked into the local library," Ryou deadpanned.

_Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch._"I just _know_, okay?" I growled, "It's not something that needs research. I'm getting fat for no reason, headaches for no reason, _everything_ for no reason!"

Ryou absently continued rubbing the plate. Finally, he seemed to be at least considering what I said—unless this was another plate and he hadn't been working on the first one to suggest any diversion of attention—and there was a long silence, interrupted only by my heavy breaths.

"I don't like jokers, Bakura," he said finally, and the seriousness of his gaze struck me as worrying. It was more worrying than ever when he put down the plate, letting a mess of soap and water dribble down the counter as he walked out the kitchen door.

It felt horrifyingly like he'd just quit his job as my housewife.

-

Ryou's relationship with me had always been a secret to the public. This was an easy secret since my career is sadly unappreciated or unknown to many audiences, but if it ever got bigger I figured I could dump him and marry my job instead. True, Ryou would be a good secondary source of money, but stardom never lasts once they find you already committed. So as I waited for the new movie to hit the theatres and gain some nice ratings, I'd thought easily that I would deposit Ryou onto the lowly doorstep of which we'd first met. I'm a bloody romantic.

I never thought it would be the other way around.

Ryou had come back with a suspiciously ordinary looking paper bag in one hand, the top of it rolled into a sloppy fold to prevent its contents from dropping out. At first I thought it was lube, and when he had brushed past me to the left of the apartment where the bedroom was, I'd felt pretty compelled to follow. It was the short glimpse of his glare that stopped me; being the man I was, I nearly whimpered and recoiled at the coldness of his expression. Nearly. I didn't, because I was a man.

In light of my grown up, manly stride, I followed him down the hallway in stupid childlike curiosity to see where he headed. Before I could turn the corner, the sound of a door slamming close stunned me along with a resounding click. Ryou had gone into the bathroom—took the bag with him too. So he didn't want my amazing male-only organ in his ass, I'd concluded, instead he'd turned to his girly white hands. A blow to my ego, but I was otherwise fine with it.

I had long retreated to the living room by the time he showed face in the area of my peripheral vision again. The bag had gone from his hands.

I blatantly ignored him in favour of watching some ugly woman slithering about the screen of the television, and in turn he made a show of not caring. Ungrateful bitch. Discreetly, my eyes trailed after his back as he walked into the kitchen to get his nightly snack.

It wasn't fair—how come he got to eat his three meals per day _plus_ fatty snacks that probably made up a fourth meal and not gain any fat while I ate virtually nothing and bloated up? I always thought I had high metabolism, and now I'm desperately hoping my manly scrawniness wasn't just because I never had enough to eat.

The repulsive slut paused in her actions, then disappeared entirely with the background of whatever show she had been doing. The ending credits played, and barely a minute later the old clock on the wall behind me chimed like it was foreshadowing certain doom. I could see Ryou gathering what little things he has around the house, and as he stepped into his shoes by the doorway I indeed felt the lurking beginnings of a disaster.

Outwardly, I could see nothing wrong with this pattern; Ryou left at about ten every night, going back to his luxurious resort or wherever to leave me rotting. As much as I believe in beauty slumber and health perseverance, I prefer to indulge in alcohol and reminiscence of past events so I can easily sob or laugh myself to sleep.

I remember when I'd thought about the future just a few weeks ago, feeling high and giddy and happily inebriated as my fists punched the air I saw as Yami/Yugi/whatever's face, just waiting for the day to come when I could legally maim someone—as close as it gets, anyway. Little did I know, just a few days after that delightful future, I would be completely and utterly damned.

The fact that what happened was completely avoidable was what made it the worst.

It was the morning after that I saw the slut on TV again, flailing around in a pathetic (and sordid) attempt of emitting sexual appeal. I knew without a doubt that even with the overwhelming obesity of my twenty-six inch waist I would have more success in her career than she did, even if my testicles hung out.

It was about three in the afternoon when I opted for a piss, and conveniently my daily after-lunch teeth cleansing procedure. (I sound like a commercial—maybe participating in one would help my career?) After washing my hands (and turning off the tap with a square of toilet paper), I opened the overhead cabinet to reach for my super minty toothpaste; I had a feeling something big was going to happen very soon today, and if it would be sex then I needed to be prepared.

Before my hands could wrap around the tube, my fingers bumped into an extremely unfamiliar surface, and I froze.

My heart stopped for a beat upon the foreign touch, and if I hadn't forcefully trained myself for nonchalance, I would've jumped backwards and ran out the door. Looking up to see what it was as I had been concentrating on something else beforehand, the sight was not much more reassuring; it was blue and brightly stripped in the shape of a box, and in the crevice of a particularly large stripe were the bolded words, _pregnancy tester._

As you can tell, I think of myself as a masculine man. I pride myself on being a man, with all required manly organs, a cool masculine behaviour pattern (excuse the slip ups), and a short hair cut. If anything, this had to be intended for Ryou.

This is why I was screaming five minutes later, and didn't stop until my throat was past raw.

I can only remember snippets of what happened after that. Ryou had come in, I think—and while I was too busy experience the worst possible situation of my life, he was looking at the tiny plus sign on the screen of the testing pen, clutched in my shaking fingers. He had to have been.

He had to, because in no other circumstance of me having a mental breakdown or crap hanging out my ass would he ever shut the door and leave.

He'd shut it quietly. So quietly I should've realized there was something else I should worry about, something that wasn't inevitable and could actually be fixed.

Instead, finally coming to reluctant terms of scarce tolerance with my fate hours later, I walked out of the washroom and found absolutely nothing.

_Nothing_ included my everything. Everything that wasn't too big to carry out the house, everything that Ryou had funded for, he had taken back. Going into the living room I found my one-seater lounger missing, along with the plasma TV and even the rug across the floor. All left of what I actually would miss was a lonely game council, formerly under an oak coffee table where the television had resided on, now bare and naked and exposed to the dusty ceiling. Ryou hated that thing.

I went into my bedroom to find two bare mattresses, overlapped poorly in what had to be the struggle of getting their silk covers pulled off them. I walked to my kitchen, discovered an empty fridge and did not ever find again my favourite china set, and realized with a weighty dread that Ryou would not be smelling my minty fresh breath tonight and forever after.

All I could think of, curled up on the loveseat couch, was that Ryou had left so early today. The doom bells chimed softly behind me and I stared at the x-box that had nothing to plug into, idly fingering the useless controller. He must have left right at three, I concluded, right after he came to see why I was screaming my head off; it was the only reasonable time to have him able to take everything away from me. Everything that he owned, including himself.

I never loved him. It started as a joke, ended as a disaster, but one of the financial kind—this relationship had never swayed from being one-sided on Ryou's part. Finding no notes or clues of lost love in wake of Ryou's parting, I finally began to suspect that Ryou had intelligence somewhere in his pretty head—that he might have been in this fake relationship for something, for fame if I'd one day reveal us maybe. Intellect and looks. Don't I have that? Why did I start in the slumps and end up in the equivalent of one?

I don't understand. I don't fucking understand. Where did I go wrong? Where did I go any _more_ wrong, when I'd been born in the bad side to begin with? I have talent. I have looks, I have intelligence. Why don't my movies sell?

Why doesn't anyone like me?

I don't know why I'm wondering about all this irrelevant crap. Maybe I've just become accustomed to his face…his touch…

…Begging under me…

…

…and the clock bell chimed again, in which this time I heard it loudly—roused from slumber. I groaned as I stretched, pausing when I felt a disturbance on the thin fabric of my pants. I looked down and came face to face with a pathetic looking wet splotch.

I'd just had a wet dream about the guy who robbed my house and dumped me.

Suddenly, all my senses went on high, and I jumped up from the couch—momentarily waiting for the black in my vision to swim out—and my emotions did a complete one-eighty from yesterday night. Maybe it hadn't completely sunk in yet, but everything surely did now. I freaked out.

I looked all around the house for a phone number that I didn't memorize like the faithful boyfriend I was, then checked the contact list on my (thankfully) pocketed cell phone. The latter turned out a lot more effective as I should've realized in the first place, and I was about to press the 'dial' button—

—the batteries ran out.

"_Fuck!_" I'd screamed. Swearing won't help any now, but I couldn't find any other way to express my anger to the world that didn't care, so I repeated it. Over and over again. Over and over.

In fact, I'd sworn so much that when the last telephone in the apartment rang, the first thing I did after picking up the receiver was to yell a loud _fuck_ over the line.

"…Bakura-san?"

Fuck, indeed.

"Uh," I started, then thinking quickly, squeezed the muscles in my throat and reached a higher pitch to sound like Ryou. "Hold on, I'll get him."

It was my manager on the other side of the line, and I know very well he wasn't stupid. Hopefully his suspicions would be cleared if and when he blames the loud fuzz of the phone for altering my, or Ryou's voice.

I coughed a few and went lifted the receiver, speaking into it with my manly devastated glory. "Yes?"

"Did you check the ratings last night?" he started excitedly, and his happiness really pissed me off—why was he so happy when I'm going through the worst time of my life?—"You won. The movie won. The best film, that is—and you really got it going this time, especially in that fight scene!" I could hear him click his tongue before he continued. "You got the _Best Male Actor_ award!"

Ah, yes, my career. I'd forgotten about that—or, I'm just usually not reminded of it, seeing as how I seem to be living the life of a hobo every time I'm not on my job.

I wanted to tell him that I don't have the internet access or the luxury of a computer, or even a television anymore to be able to know anything outside this lowly apartment, but refrained revealing my poorness and forced some excitement in my voice. "Wow, really?"

My master plan of sounding happy must have came off as sarcastic somehow, because my manager paused before repeating himself. "The _Best Male Actor _award. It's yours. You've won it for the whole year!" He paused again and inhaled as if to continue, but stopped himself, expecting my input.

Yes, I k_now_, you just told me that three seconds ago.

"Yeah, I feel amazing!" Amazingly frustrated. "When is the ceremony?"

"Tomorrow," he chirped, "prepare your speech! And please refrain from—"

"Yes, I'll say something generic. What time will it be at?"

After acquiring all the necessary information, I found that I would be taken to the party in my manager's black van. _He has a van_. I don't even have a car—Ryou calls the cabs, or I walk. The event would go from five pm to midnight…and my award would be announced at least third to last. I would get to hang out with mindless Hollywood officials, stuck with their fake smiles and empty gazes, getting reminded of Ryou's deceit to me all night.

But, you know? I've wanted this movie to sell so badly. This is the best thing to have happened to me.

Why does this not even begin to compare to the fact that unimportant Ryou has left me?

* * *

**tbc**

* * *

I'm assuming here that no one is a superstar and has any qualms about how a manager is supposed to act like, or how the actor would actually be alerted of this, because obviously I have absolutely no idea how that goes.

Ryou abandons pregnant semi-famous actor and leaves him in financial desperation. What a nice headline. _This is the last Ryou chapter_ for a while—if you haven't read the summary properly, this story's main pairing is Marik x Bakura. He'll appear next chapter—these two beginning chapters just didn't need him yet. Will also change character category from Ryou to Y. Marik once the next chapter is up.

Is it any less confusing or are you all drawing question marks now?


	3. Worth a thousand swear words

So I finally got off my ass, or rather stayed on it long enough to write this long belated third chapter. Um, lol. Lol. Fuckdamnit, lol.

Dedication goes to everyone who reviewed, who obviously still care that this dead fic updated, for I am sick and reading your reviews opened up this new light in my brain somewhere, enabling my eyeballs not to water when opened for three seconds straight.

* * *

Worth a thousand (swear) words

* * *

I spent at least half and hour plastering layer upon layer of makeup onto my face. Too bad I couldn't put any on my eyes to hide the pronounced blood vessels.

I was beginning to think I had been the woman of the relationship all along. The man dumped the woman, not the other way around, she wouldn't _dare_—not a few generations ago, at least. The man definitely wouldn't spent his day crying over the loss of his wife, and _definitely_ wouldn't apply makeup in an attempt to cover up his tear tracks…they wouldn't go out with it and let anyone know, anyway.

My manager was hopelessly honking at the general direction of my suite. When I said half an hour…I meant half an hour _after_ the arranged time. I think I'll just pretend I can't hear him…the seventh floor is pretty high, what with those low ceilings…or I'll pretend he's gotten the wrong suite, because he obviously does not know exactly where I live by now.

A few slow minutes later, I made my way to the elevator. I stood there for some stupid moments before going to actually press the down button on the wall. My head raced with intellect as I stared at myself in the elevator mirror after it finally came about another half hour later—I was in a quasi get up of the badass, manly character I played in that movie where I pretended to break Yugi Yami's face…I hope he's at the show to take the blunt of my misery. Especially if he starts laughing at how I fail to represent my own role, because I look more like Mai's slutty French maid character in a suit and looking fat than a hot evil villain.

Apparently, during the time in which I was admiring my repulsiveness, my manager had for some reason gotten out of his car to wait at the single operational elevator door so that he could glare at me upon my arrival. As it was, the first thing I saw when the exit slid open was his scrunched up expression—as if he knew exactly what had happened, as if he was going to scold me for getting dumped and utterly humiliated.

So I stood there, not getting out, suddenly wanting to cry all over again. My manager continued glaring at me until the elevator door started closing.

I was definitely the girl of every relationship.

-

I was either going to sleep, or end up bawling in my manager's uninviting arms.

The darkness of the night was pretty boring, which in turn was calming (besides the occasional glare of the streetlamp). It was a nice atmosphere for sleep, but also a good one for reminiscence about stupid, upsetting things like your previous involvement in a gay relationship and how it sucked, besides the sex—but oh, that's gone now right? Haha. God _fuck_ it all!

Every thought of Ryou made me want to cry or tear off the leather of the car's seats because I wasn't in immediate reach of Yami Yugi's face. I could not do either, though, so when the first drop made its way down my cheeks, my manager turned to me and said, "I will not pay for ruined makeup."

Cruel bastard.

Sniff.

I arrived at the party, and was somewhat glad to find that Yamgi was not there; I may not have been able to resist ruining his ugly face further. Not that it wouldn't feel incredibly amazing to kill him, just that my career would die completely in result. But if I didn't get caught…

Nothing really happened. I wanted to get drunk off my ass before going on stage, but all I got was a tiny glass of wine and a tight-ass dinner with all the ladies and gentlemen sluts of the film industry or the singing industry forced and wrongly forced into the film industry. I scribbled a small speech on my napkin (when no one was looking, because who know what that'd do to my reputation), rehearsed it silently, and promptly forgot all the fancy words I'd written when ushered under the glaring spotlight. In fact, to my horror, I'd forgotten the whole thing.

This is where adlibbing comes handy, like when I was spouting all that bullshit to Ryou…

I cleared my throat.

_Fuck you, mom and dad, for giving birth to me_. "I just want to say, thank you so much to my mom and dad…"

-

I managed to maintain a forcedly positive attitude until I got to my apartment. My manager took my shiny trophy away from me the moment we left the building—couldn't he have waited until we were in the car?—and now, with two loves lost, I collapsed on my naked bed and began the familiar process of upsetting myself again with the power of senseless thoughts.

Vaguely, I noticed an envelope on the bedside table. The fine print on it was typed; typical of Ryou. Maybe it was a letter from him—telling me how much I've sucked throughout our sucky relationship and that I should practice sucking my own dick when I'm placed in a sucky coffin because that's what I'll be doing to Satan, or…something. It's a letter from Ryou; what can I expect? I'll read it when I'm feeling better…so I can put myself down again…smart idea.

With much effort, I manage to pull myself up high enough to crawl over to the bedside table without creating too much friction on my bulging stomach. I reluctantly reached for the cursed envelope…

…And it's so much more cursed that I first thought because it was the fucking _rent bill_.

"_HOLY MOTHERFUCKING GOD__**DAMNIT**__WHAT THE FUCKING__**AHHHHHHHHHRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA**__HAHA_HAHAhahaha..._**FUCK!**_"

-

Day three after the horrifying incident. Ryou, Ryou, where's your number. I had it on my cell phone, but now it's gone along with my mind. Where's your email address, your home address, I need to spam you with letters of my desperation and fake love. Write back to me, Ryou, preferably with a cheque. I miss you, call back, I have your nude photos and I'll put them on the internet if you don't—no, please, I'll never, what do you take me for? I love you I love you I fucked you goddamnit, love me and call me back pretty please?

By the way, I paid my rent bill. So I'm not asking for money or anything, just, I want our amazing long-winded magical fling back.

_Sincerely_, Bakura.

"Sir, I'm afraid we can't send this." The man behind the counter of the postage store said. "This seems to contain...suspicious content."

I've been sending letters for three days straight, every ten minutes. I figured that writing said letters right in front of the cashier would be easier than going home and coming back out over and over again.

"Suspicious content?" I growled. Ohh, the poor guy's gulping. Take _that,_ Ryou.

"Well first, there's false identity—" he pointed a grimy finger to my signed name at the very bottom of the lined paper—"secondly, this contains worrisome material. Sounds a bit...stalkerish?"

"And who are _you_ to judge who I think I am and what I can or cannot write?" I snarled, getting closer and closer to his face. "Does it say anywhere I cannot send funny love letters to my bestest friend ever? I'm sure _she_ misses me—that's supposed to explain the obsessive behaviour, by the way." I forcedly crumbled the paper into a cheap, small envelope, then crushed it to make it look relatively presentable. "Now get sending, mailboy."

Mailboy stared at me dumbly. Reminds me of Yamiyami and how I haven't punched his face in a while. Man, the good times, the good times.

Mailboy number two—some brown-black kid with platinum hair twice the size of mine before I cut it, which I found were very much to my tastes—walks out in all his unimportant glory, staring at the slightly puffy letter. The edges of the line paper had stuck itself out into the open, and conveniently it was where my signature was—great, another person to reprimand me for being delusional. Screw you, I know I am, don't judge. Must distract him somehow...

"Yo, mailboy, send my letter will you? Thanks." I push the envelope towards the bewildered kid, and after a second thought reluctantly slap some money onto the counter to pay for a stamp and the man power it takes to stick one on.

I head home for the day, momentarily satisfied. I can feel everyone's eyes watching the swish of my crappy old coat and my stylish 50's hat, following the sway of my arms and blackened attractive elbows as I walked out of glass doors that parted for me automatically. Yes, this is what it's supposed to be. Everyone staring and praising and loving me—hold on, my jacket just got caught in the door—see, Ryou, I'm amazing. I'm fucking amazing. Come get some, you undeserving bitch.

Little did I know that tomorrow, more than one person would come get some, and it would not be of my ass of eternal love. Little did I know that today would be my last day...as a free man.

* * *

**tbc**

* * *

I just realized that I lied. Marik didn't get in here yet...he will in the next chapter, I promise, for real this time because I've actually written it in.

Review subject: has my writing gone to hell or is it still tolerable?


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